


Head Cases - Part the Fourth

by freyburg



Series: Head Cases [4]
Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyburg/pseuds/freyburg
Summary: Handles and Morbius make their way through the rebel base, Davros stews in Vader’s cockpit but integrates himself with its controls, Tanner gets roped into the attack on the Death Star after a sabacc game goes wrong, and Morbius is left behind in the Rebel control room.





	Head Cases - Part the Fourth

Morbius grumbled as his cerebral fluid sloshed back and forth in his jar, the glass surface of the container scraping the sides of a battered X-Wing pilot’s helmet. The helmet was carried (in none too careful a manner, Morbius testily noted) by Tanner, the laziest Imperial functionary it had ever been the Time Lord’s displeasure to know. 

Granted, his entire experience on the Death Star consisted of meeting a couple of stormtroopers, being frightened out of his wits by Darth Vader and now, trailing this dawdling dunderpate. Perhaps they’d escaped to a more hospitable location, but Morbius was nothing if not a pessimist. His time on the High Council and betrayal by their hands had taught him nothing was ever as clear-cut as it seemed. 

Still, Davros hadn’t belittled him in quite some time, and that felt agreeable. He wondered what the prunish gargoyle was up to in that horrific space station, or if he’d escaped, and if so, to where. 

With an abrupt jolt, the helmet ceased swaying and sagged in Tanner’s hand. Morbius peeked over the lid of the bottom of the helmet, straining to see what the functionary was up to. The lack of eyes or indeed any sense organs made assessing his surroundings difficult, but his Time Lord heritage and millennia of isolation meant his telepathy was a finely tuned instrument. He concentrated on his surroundings, using the thoughts and senses of others as a mental map. 

Handles was still strapped to Tanner’s belt, presumably assessing the situation through his cyber-sensors, weighing options and probabilities. Tanner, on the other hand, was going through a closet, holding up various military outfits, robes and tunics before casting them to the floor. 

“Just pick one!” Morbius said. “We haven’t got time for sartorial selectivity!”

Tanner turned to the bubbling brain. “I want to find something that won’t attract attention. I’m lazy, but I’m not stupid.”

“Analysis correct,” Handles piped in from Tanner’s belt. 

Morbius bubbled petulantly, but did not respond. 

“Aha!” Tanner cried. “This one!”

The young man stripped down to his undergarments (somewhat soiled, Morbius noted) and slipped on an orange jumpsuit with a white chest piece fwith archaic looking controls in its center. 

“Yes, that garish ensemble won’t attract any attention at all,” Morbius said. If only he had eyes, he would have rolled them, and he hoped at least his sarcastic tone registered. 

“Definitely. Thanks!” Tanner replied.  
Apparently not, Morbius fumed. 

___

Davros was bored. Not a new feeling, and not an especially welcome one. But an Imperial functionary had dropped him into Darth Vader’s TIE fighter, and there was little he could do to change that.

He had experience with these situations, of course. He had spent eons underground between his initial meetings with the Doctor on Skaro, and then again on a space station after centuries in suspended animation. The vulgarity of his next meeting, where he was reduced to a mere head in a jar, was matched by the Doctor’s garish costume. 

And now here he was, bodiless once more, trapped in an alternate universe and at the mercy of an angry religious fanatic swathed in metal and hate. The irony of his predicament was not lost on him, given his own creations and they're predilection for betrayal. 

Still, he wasn’t entirely sure that Vader knew he was in his fighter. And from what the…was he the Doctor? He seemed the part and yet didn’t, but Davros knew the Doctor was nothing if not unpredictable. Best to assume the strange elderly Imperial officer was telling the truth, and that very soon a cataclysm was headed for this space station. In that case, Davros thought, this fighter might be the safest place to be, Vader or not. 

But there are always ways to improve the odds, he mused, and concentrated his blue middle eye on the ship’s primitive computer systems. 

This universe was in some ways more advanced than his own, but their computer systems were hopelessly primitive. That didn’t make them any less effective, as the station seemed to wield a weapon of unimaginable power, but it did mean even the limited power of Davros’ limbic antenna was adequate to forge an interface with the ship’s controls. The rest was up to the Skarosian’s formidable brain, and he had ample time to test paths between his brain and the tapestry of wires and circuitry criss-crossing the vehicle. 

He merely had to concentrate his thoughts at the proper pathway….

A speaker crackled to life in the recesses of the ship, and strange, bass-heavy music  
thundered through the cockpit. 

“Welcome to the Terrordome!” a strange alien voice screamed, deafening him as it reverberated around his jar. 

No! Davros thought to himself, quickly drawing his thoughts away from the ship’s systems. This cacophony must cease, at least until Vader was piloting the ship and at his mercy. And then, he would be the one to welcome the dark lord to the terrordome. 

___

Tanner paced through the corridors of the temple. The tempo of activity had increased somewhat since their arrival, with technicians hauling equipment to and fro and those of higher rank walking in crowds of two and three past him, all with worried looks on their faces. What could be bothering them, he wondered? 

“Handles?”

“Affirmative.”

“What’s got everyone so worked up?”

“Attack imminent. Weaponized space station is several rels away, and closing.”

What’s a rel? Tanner thought, and then realized he didn’t care. 

“Cool.”

The trio padded forward, Morbius sulking quietly as Handles scanned the rooms ahead. 

“Warning. Gathering ahead. Elevated levels of tension, aggression and fear,” Handles said. 

“What is it?”

“Scanning." 

Shouts and clapping emerged from a room further down the hall, sounding for all the world like a sporting event crossed with a board meeting. 

"Whatever that is, it sounds horrid," Morbius intoned. 

An X-wing pilot's helmet flew through the door, hit the opposite wall and landed with a thud onto the floor. A hirsute man, all moustache and slightly-too-long hair, stumbled out of the room and collapsed in a drunken heap next to the helmet. 

From inside the room, a cheer went up, with cries of “Sabacc! Sabacc!”

“Sabacc!” Tanner said excitedly.

“Analysis. Game of chance. Odds of winning…astronomically low,” Handles said. 

“I like those odds!” Tanner exclaimed. 

“Handles?” Morbius whispered.

“Affirmative,” Handles replied. 

“We’re doomed.”

Handles whirred momentarily. “Affirmative.”

Tanner ignored the whispering at his hip and rushed down the hallway, jostling Morbius back and forth. 

“Impudent rascal!” Morbius sneered, but he knew it was futile. They were going to go whoever this dolt decided, and he might as well put up with it or will himself into a coma. 

Tanner burst into the room. Though he’d only know the technician for a matter of hours, Morbius was certain this was the most animated he’d been in quite some time. Indeed, he appeared to be out of breath or..panting with desire?

If Morbius could have shuddered, he would have. There were some things he didn’t need to know. 

Tanner set the helmet down on a nearby shelf, but left Handles dangling on his belt. He sat down at the table, oblivious to the glares of half a dozen hardened Rebel pilots and mechanics. 

“Deal me in,” he said. 

___

Davros sighed. He had interacted with some stupid machines in his time, not to mention the organic variety of imbecile, but this TIE Fighter seemed to be going out of its way to annoy him. True, he had rudimentary control over the navigation systems, but the weaponry still eluded him, along with the life support mechanisms.

And why did this ship need life support in the first place? From what Davros could tell, this was Darth Vader's personal vessel, and the looming wraith clearly had his own personal systems to sustain him. Noisy ones. 

In fact this entire universe seemed to thrive on contradiction. A giant, deadly space station stood as the pinnacle of scientific achievement..and yet not a guard rail to be found on its numerous bridges and catwalks. It beggared the mind.

How had he ended up in this plight? He had the vaguest memories of shadows, a crack in the wall, white-hot light and fear…and then the dark room where he found himself held captive with an arrogant brain in a jar and a pedantic Cyberman head. It smacked of farce, honestly. 

And now he did’t even have that. He was alone in an insane universe, living in fear of a mechanical wizard in a witch’s jumpsuit and fighting a losing battle with the world’s worst navi-computer. 

A faint beep echoed throughout the cockpit. Then another.

“Access granted,” a mechanical voice intoned. 

Davros jerked upward, sloshing his fluid excitedly. Had he bested this machine? Had he proven once again that he was the prime intellect of the universe?

Indeed he had. 

And the universe would suffer for it. 

___

“So you like sabacc, eh? Well, we’re serious players here. Serious.”

"Yeah, you said that. We gonna play or what?"

A Mon Calamari sitting across from Tanner poked its head towards him. 

“Now look here son, you don’t talk big unless you have something to bring to the game. Put up or shut up.”

“Looks like you brought the cliches. My name’s Tanner, and you are?”  
“I didn’t ask you your name and I don’t care for your attitude. I do care about” ..the Mon Calamari breathed in deeply.. “assets. What’ve you got?”

Tanner paused and fidgeted, then snatched Handles off his belt and put him in the middle of the table.

“Breach of protocol,” Handles said. 

“That’s not like any droid I’ve seen,” one of the pilots said, scratching the scruff on his chin pensively. 

“Origin: multi-dimensional,” Handles added helpfully. 

“Quiet!” Tanner whispered to Handles, though he wasn’t sure why. He made a point of not listening to Handles. 

“Affirmative,” Handles said in a low tone. 

“Name’s Porkins,” a heavy-set pilot said. “And..”

Tanner interrupted him with a snicker. 

“Seriously? That’s your name?”

Porkins just stared dead ahead at Tanner. 

“Well then. We going to play or what?” Tanner said. 

A klaxon peeled through the air, jolting the pilots to their feet and piercing Morbius synapses. 

“Alert! All pilots to briefing room! Alert!”

Tanner ran to Morbius, scooping up the helmet under his arm as the pilots jammed through the entrance and ran down the hall. Porkins pushed by him with a withering glare. 

More jostling, Morbius thought. How undignified. 

TO BE CONTINUED!


End file.
